Even the Deep Ones Heal
by alijoe13
Summary: While on hunt, Sam and Dean are ambushed by another pair of hunters who are after Sam. After patching themselves back up, the brothers have to deal with the hunters, and Dean has to deal with the information about Sam that they bring to light.


Sam pushes the door inward with his foot and hauls a groaning Dean through.

"Not so hard, dude," Dean moans. With one arm slung around Sam's neck and the other wrapped tightly around his aching torso, he couldn't do much else.

"You get gentle or you get fast, Dean. You don't get both," Sam snaps back.

Dean makes a face as he pulls away and collapses on the bed while Sam slams the door to the motel room, leaning on it as he locks it and slides the thin chain into place. He peeks through the blinds of the window next to it.

"Anybody?" Dean asks from the bed.

Sam takes a long moment before responding. "No," he says, shaking his head. "I don't see anyone." He backs away from the window.

Dean rolls onto his side to face his brother. "Your back is bleeding," he mutters.

"No, Dean, _really?" _Sam retorts, reaching for the spot he feels burning behind his shoulder. He can't quite get a look at it, but can feel it under the blood. The single puncture wound shot waves of pain through his shoulder; undeniably from a bullet. "I think it's safe to say we weren't following a werewolf."

"You think?" Dean says angrily. "Who the hell was that?"

Sam shakes his head as he crosses the small motel room in a few steps. "I didn't get a look. My guess," he grunts as he stiffly pulls off his jacket and throws it to the side, "is Reggie and Hank."

Dean rolls onto his back again. "Ugh! Reggie and Hank! They're who caught up with you last month?"

Sam nods, and starts groping through the closet where they shoved all their bags earlier.

"Well, that's great, Sam! Anything else you maybe wanna share before you get us both killed?"

"Cut the crap, Dean. I had no way of knowing they were still following me!"

Dean doesn't respond, fuming in silence instead.

Sam pulls out their duffels with his good arm and groans with the mild weight as he tosses them on the dresser. After lugging Dean from the Impala to the room, he's about ready to fall over himself.

"Look, slow down," Dean says as he sits up painfully. "I think we've got a few minutes of breathing space. Let's take it to get ourselves together." He stands up to walk unsteadily to the bags and starts digging through them.

Sam turns to the sink to splash water on his face, but watches Dean in the mirror. "Dean, what are you doing? You need to sit down before you pass out again."

"I didn't pass out before," Dean retorts. "And you have a bullet in your shoulder that needs to come out."

"Well, you're sure as hell not digging around in my shoulder while you're seeing stars."

Ducking into the bathroom to find something semi-clean, Sam wraps one of the threadbare towels around his shoulder and ties it with his teeth to slow the bleeding. Then he pulls an ice pack out of the cooler in the closet and throws it on the dresser next to Dean. "Sit down."

Dean's face twists in pain as he sits back down on the bed, holding the ice pack to the back of his head.

"Does anything feel broken?" Sam asks as he grabs one of the bags and a towel, and goes to stand next to the bed.

"Everything feels broken."

"Can you breathe?"

Dean nods.

"Then don't be such a baby," he huffs.

"Know what? Anytime you wanna catch a bookshelf to the face in my place, you be my guest!" Dean gingerly raises his shirt on one side. "Just tell me nothing needs stiches."

Sam grits his teeth as he slowly kneels beside the bed. The surrounding skin on along Dean's ribs was already turning black and blue, but it's only broken in a few places. They're more scraps than gashes, and all pretty shallow, despite the amount of blood they were leaking. "No," Sam says to the stitches. "I think you're good." He folds the rag and hands it to Dean, who puts it against the scraps and pulls his shirt back down over it. "How's your head?"

"Clearer." Dean tosses the ice pack down and stands up. "Your turn. Let me see your shoulder."

Sam raises an eyebrow doubtfully, but sits on the bed and slowly peels off his shirt and towel. He feels Dean pull at the sides of the throbbing wound as he examines it, and he stiffens a bit.

"Well, obviously it didn't go through and you're not dying, so it probably hit bone," Dean says eventually. He presses the towel against the wound and puts Sam's hand over it to hold it in place. "I'll be right back."

Sam hears Dean move the blinds around to look out before going out the door. Less than a minute later, the door opens again, and Dean's back, carrying a bottle of whisky. Then Sam catches sight of a thin knife in his other hand and groans.

"Sorry buddy," Dean says, sounding generally apologetic. "It was the first thing I could get my hands on; I didn't want to spend too long digging around in the car." He puts the bottle on the dresser. "There's a car out there."

Sam blinks at him. "A car, like a car of significance."

"Would I mention it if it wasn't? It looks familiar and it wasn't there a few minutes ago." Dean starts rubbing the edge of the knife against the chipping stucco that makes up one wall of their motel room.

It takes Sam a moment, but he realizes that his brother is trying to dull down the blade. He takes a deep breath as he watches Dean. "Was there anyone in it?"

"I couldn't tell, but no one is bothering to hide it." Dean blows on the knife edge and tests it against his finger. Then he picks up the bottle and pours a little bit of the alcohol over the blade. "I think they're waiting for us to run."

"Terrific."

Deans takes a swig from the bottle. "Here you go." He hands it to Sam over his shoulder. "You're probably gonna want that in a second."

Sam sighs, and takes it.

"You want something to bite on?"

Sam gives him a look.

"Just thought I'd ask." Dean pushes Sam's hand holding the towel away from his shoulder.

Reluctantly, Sam moves his hand and takes a drink of the whisky. He feels the knife and tenses, then grips the edge of the bed and clenches his jaw as Dean starts searching deeper for the bullet.

Dean doesn't bother to go slowly, opting for speed rather than gentleness.

While Sam's grateful for this, it doesn't lessen the pain that's intense enough to taste that shoots through his shoulder when the tip of the knife nudges the bullet. He gives a short yell of pain.

"Found it," Dean goes.

"Uhh," Sam growls through his clenched teeth. "Noted."

Dean feels around for a few more minutes, but can't work the projectile to the surface.

"Dude," Sam starts to say, pulling away. "You gotta stop."

"No, wait, I almost got it," Dean lies. He pauses. "Alright, just…" he leans over Sam's shoulder to look his brother in the eye. "Hold still. And don't hit me."

Sam doesn't have time to respond before Dean pushes a finger into the bullet wound alongside the knife.

Sam almost goes through the roof. "Aarhhh," he yells out as he makes a conscious decision not to smash the whisky bottle upside his brother's head.

Dean hurriedly locates the bullet and, between the knife and his finger, manages to draw it out. "I got it, I got it," he says quickly, pressing the towel over the wound again to staunch the fresh bleeding. He tosses the knife and smashed bullet onto the mattress. Then he starts digging though the bag with one hand, still holding the towel in place with the other.

Sam focuses on breathing and tries to ignore Dean, taking another, longer sip off the bottle while Dean pulls a needle and some nylon thread from the bag.

This particular needle was actually a sharp fishing hook that Sam had clipped the barb off. They used it for deeper cuts. "Looks like you're not so lucky on the stitches. Hold this," Dean says indicating the towel.

"Just hurry up before I change my mind about ever letting you near me again."

"Now who's being the baby?" Dean threads the hook before swiping the alcohol away from Sam for a moment to douse the items. Then he moves the towel and starts sewing.

Sam doesn't comment, while Dean continues to works in silence.

Eventually, Sam takes one last drink, then sets the bottle of whisky on the floor. "So, you said they're waiting for us to run?"

"Mmhmm," comes the response.

"That's a terrible idea."

"Mm," Dean shrugs. "Better than raiding us head on, don't you think?"

"It's what they did to me in Oklahoma."

"There was only one of you then, and they had leverage, right?"

"Yeah," Sam admits. "But they've got pretty good leverage here too."

Dean snips the thread and pours whisky over the stiches, prompting a sharp inhalation from Sam.

"I mean," he continues as he takes the towel from Dean and holds it almost protectively over the sutures. "We're not exactly in top fighting shape right now."

Dean picks up the ice pack again and collapses on the other bed. "So what's your point?"

"My point is," Sam turns his head to look at Dean. "Do we spring their trap or set our own?"

* * *

><p>AN

Keep an eye out for the second and final chapter to see how the brothers deal with Reggie and Hank, and the memories they bring with them.

Any feedback's appreciated and thanks for reading!


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